A Cure for Boredom
by longlivetheprat
Summary: John has a date... and Sherlock doesn't like it one bit.


John Watson had a date.

It wasn't unusual, really. It was a Friday night, after all, and wasn't that the day when people usually went on dates?

What _was_ unusual, though, was that this was the sixth girl he'd dated in as many weeks.

He hadn't rejoined the dating business with the intent to find a new girl each week – he wasn't a player. His purpose had been to find a nice, pretty girl to finally settle down with because, as much as he didn't want to admit it, he was starting to get old. It wasn't his fault that all of the girls he'd met were either too loud or too desperate or too annoying or, above all, (and this applied to every one of them) too boring.

God, he was starting to sound like Sherlock.

It was his fault John even had this problem in the first place: that bastard Sherlock Holmes. It was because of him that John could never seem to gather even the slightest amount of interest in any girl anymore. Not that that meant that he liked men, because he didn't. It was only Sherlock that seemed to draw his attention, and sometimes, (like after every single disaster of a date he went on) John couldn't help but think that his flatmate had inadvertently (or possibly knowingly, considering the size of his ego) ruined everyone else in the entire world for him.

John kept dating though, persistent and stubborn as he was, refusing to believe that there wasn't a single girl out there who intrigued him anymore. But every time he returned home from his failed dates, (always earlier than expected, always grumpy and irritable) he lost a little bit more of the hope he still had buried deep inside of him that he would ever find the right girl.

And then came Sarah. She was pretty, definitely; John could tell that from across the hall at Bart's from the very first moment he saw her. She was funny, too, and very smart, which he found out when they were assigned the same patient that day and when they met up for coffee afterwards during their lunch break. Not Sherlock-smart, but, well, was there really anyone out there as smart as _the _Sherlock Homes besides the man himself?

Besides, John found himself smiling (a real smile) for the first time in a long time with someone who wasn't Sherlock bloody Holmes. With a pretty girl who he was actually interested in and who seemed to return the interest. With a girl who wasn't boring.

So they planned to meet again that Friday night and John returned home after work with his chest feeling lighter than ever and with a bounce in his step, the one he got only when he was working a case with Sherlock (or rather, watching in awe while Sherlock brilliantly worked the case all on his own, and then relaying his admiration whenever Sherlock said something particularly brilliant). If Sherlock noticed, though, he didn't say anything. He only glanced up at John and nodded his head in silent greeting like usual before returning to whatever it was he was doing, which that day seemed to be sitting cross-legged on the floor, rummaging through the strewn books surrounding him.

Usually John would complain about what a mess Sherlock was making and that he wasn't going to be the one to clean it up, but that day he was too happy to care. With a grin on his face, John asked, "What's all this for?"

"New case. Suspect claims that it's impossible to suck out a person's innards through his nose and I am trying to disprove him," Sherlock explained absently, eyes roving impossibly fast through the pages of the book lying open in his lap. He spared a quick glance up at John and then did a double-take when he saw the wide grin on the doctor's face. He raised one eyebrow speculatively. "What's got you all pleased, then?" he asked in atypical interest.

"I've got a date on Friday," John announced happily.

Sherlock's other eyebrow rose as well and joined the first one in a dual display of curiosity. "I don't see why you would be happy about that, considering that your last several dates have been, shall we say, less than satisfactory." Because _of course_ Sherlock had noticed John's grouchy mood after every date even though he hadn't commented on it before now, and John had been foolish to think otherwise.

John's good mood disappeared just as soon as it had come. "Yes, well, this girl is different. Her name's Sarah and she's a doctor, and she's blond, and she's very much not boring," he snapped.

Sherlock was smirking now, the book in his hand long forgotten. "Of course, John," he remarked with far too much nonchalance.

John's anger was rising. _That arrogant, condescending... _

"I'm very glad you've found a new, non-boring girl to date, though you hadn't told me that all your other dates had been boring," Sherlock continued smugly. "I thought they'd all had various distinct drawbacks that turned you off them, but I had no idea that it was just the one characteristic. This, John, is why I don't date, besides the fact that I don't have the time seeing as I am married to my work – it's boring!" He enunciated the last part by throwing his book down and standing up in a flurry of long limbs and dark purple dressing gown. "It's so mundane, so tedious. I don't know how you can stand being in the company of a complete stranger for hours on end trying to make small talk and learn enough information about each other to determine whether they are relationship-worthy or not. It all sounds so... time-consuming and unnecessary; certainly not worth the effort."

Well. That certainly cleared up a few things for John. It wasn't only that Sherlock may not be interested in men and was married to his work anyway, but he also quite obviously had a thing against the entire constitution of dating. John found himself wondering, not for the first time, if Sherlock was asexual.

And suddenly John felt completely and humiliatingly pathetic. He just had to have a crush on the one person who had no chance in hell of liking him back.

And suddenly this date with Sarah was an even bigger deal than before, because if John didn't rid himself of his feelings for Sherlock, then he had to face the fact that he would be alone forever.

"Well, perhaps that's your opinion," John replied, masking his humiliation with indignation, "but in case you haven't noticed, Sherlock, the world runs on other people's opinions than just yours, and I happen to think relationships are worth the effort. Just because I haven't found the right girl... In fact, perhaps Sarah _is_ the right girl."

Sherlock snorted in derision, but John thought he saw a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes for a moment. "Suppose you'll find out on Friday, won't you? Best of luck to you, then!" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "But please, I don't have time for your petty affairs, so whatever it is that you do on this date, I don't want to know about it because _I don't care_."

And that hurt the most.

John recoiled from Sherlock's words as if they'd physically slapped him. He had always known Sherlock didn't need him - had wondered at times why he even kept him around, in fact - but he'd hoped that perhaps Sherlock had felt some sort of connection to John that he hadn't felt with anyone else. After all, he'd told John once that he didn't have any friends besides him, hadn't he? And yes, perhaps John had been stupidly hoping that Sherlock would get jealous at the mention of John going on a date with someone else.

God, had he been wrong.

But John would show him. Sarah was perfect for him. She wasn't moody or irritating or frustrating or bigheaded or overly brilliant or freakishly tall or... or male!

"Go to hell, Sherlock!" John shouted.

And then he turned away from the infuriating man and stomped up the stairs to his room where he flopped down on his bed and fumed for a while. (He absolutely did not slam his door behind him. No, of course not.) He decided, right then and there, sprawled out face-down on the bed, that he would not speak a single word to Sherlock until he apologized. He wouldn't even look at the detective until then. Not once. (Although, in the over half a year that John had known him, Sherlock hadn't said the words 'I'm sorry' even once in his presence – not to John and not to anyone else – so John wasn't holding his breath.)

Either way, John's pride demanded that he stay in his room and let Sherlock wallow in the consequences of his harsh comments, so John remained in bed until he felt his anger slowly subside and calm overtake him. Before he knew it, he found himself falling asleep, thoughts of Sherlock put aside in favor of much-needed rest. He welcomed the darkness.

John woke several hours later to the sound of his stomach rumbling. He blinked away the black spots dancing in front of his eyes and recalled that it had been about nine hours since he'd last eaten anything (because a coffee and half a scone didn't count) and that meant he would have to go downstairs sooner or later. Based on his belly's constant whines, it would have to be sooner rather than later.

So, ten minutes later, after his hunger had finally won out over his exhaustion, John found himself making his way back downstairs, grumbling under his breath the whole time about idiot detectives and stupid appetites. He reached the bottom and performed a quick cursory glance around the room, sighing in relief when he found that it was Sherlock-free. Smiling now, John made his way into the kitchen, his hands already reaching for the tea kettle-

"Oof!" He blinked several times, black spots dancing across his eyes, as he backed away a few steps to take a look at the very solid _something_ he'd just bumped into. He looked up – and up and up – and found himself face to face with a very amused-looking Sherlock.

"Hello again, John," he said and, damn him, it was hard to be mad at him when his voice was so deep and silky as it wrapped around John's name.

"Sherlock," he greeted, grumbling the words at the floor, trying to shove past the human wall in front of him so he could make himself some tea.

"Er- I- I wanted to say something," Sherlock rumbled, and his tone made John freeze and look back up into Sherlock's face. The detective sounded almost... hesitant, and Sherlock was never hesitant about anything. He was one of those men who was always confident in his own judgment. He had no reason not to be, considering his brilliance, but today something had changed.

"Well, go on then," John encouraged, taking a step back and awaiting his answer.

"Right. Well." Sherlock coughed uncomfortably and shifted his feet. He sucked in a deep breath and– "I'm s-sorry, John."

John blinked. "…what?" He couldn't possibly have heard what he thought he had.

Sherlock glowered. "Don't make me repeat it."

Several more blinks and a surreptitious pinch on his arm later and- "No, no, you don't have to repeat it," John said carefully. "It's just... who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock bristled. "Well, honestly, you make it seem as if I've never apologized for anything-"

"You haven't," John interrupted flatly.

"Take it or leave it, John. This is the first and only time I'm going to say it."

John smiled despite himself. "I'll take it. Apology accepted."

Sherlock glanced at John's face once and then returned to his examination of the floor. "Well, good then. That's all."

They stood several seconds in silence until John coughed and said pointedly, "Um, Sherlock, d'you mind letting me through?" He gestured toward the kitchen with his chin.

Sherlock came to with a start. "Right, of course," he said, and moved aside hastily.

John coughed to hide a giggle; he never thought he'd see the day when the great Sherlock Holmes was flustered. "Do you want something? A couple of biscuits and some tea, perhaps?" John called out as he grabbed the kettle and began preparing his tea.

"No time to eat, John, I'm on a case. This whole apology business has taken up far too much time as it is, and I'm horribly behind," came the brisk, impatient reply.

John smiled fondly. Back to normal, then. He wouldn't have it any other way.

"Sherlock!"

No response.

John growled in frustration as he made his way down the stairs, adjusting his tie as he went.

"Sherlock!" he called again when he reached the landing.

"What?" came the irritated, muffled response.

"Where did you put my cuff links? They were on the dining table!"

"I moved them to the living room," Sherlock said, walking into sight from the kitchen, head bent over a notebook. "They were taking up room and I needed-" Sherlock finally looked up at John and froze in place. He blinked.

"What are you wearing?" Sherlock asked in a strange voice. He was looking at John as though he'd never seen him before.

John looked down at himself. "A suit. Why, does it look bad?"

"No, no, it's not that. It's just that you haven't worn a suit to any of your other dates."

John blushed slightly. "Yes, well, Sarah is special. I think I might have finally found the right girl, and I don't want to let her slip away."

Something in Sherlock's eyes hardened. "Right. Well I hope you enjoy your date, John. I think I'm going to retire early tonight, so don't disturb me when you come back."

John was surprised; Sherlock wanting to go to bed early? Perhaps he was ill... John reached out to touch Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock swatted his hand away and scowled. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Trying to check if you have a fever."

Sherlock stepped back from John's probing hand. "I'm fine, John. Just go on your date already." And with that Sherlock turned in the direction of his bedroom - and then froze. "By the way," he said reluctantly over his shoulder, as if the words were being wrenched from his mouth. "You look nice, John."

And he left John frozen in shock. John spent a long moment staring at Sherlock's closed bedroom door before he recovered. He robotically retrieved his cuff links and coat, allowing his feet to guide him out the front door.

The click of the lock behind him startled him back to his senses. He shook his head to clear it and reassured himself that Sherlock would be fine. The date would go perfectly and he would come home to find Sherlock fast asleep for no other reason than because he was human and got tired at times despite his protests to the contrary.

John felt his heart grow lighter as he hailed a taxi and sped off down Baker Street, flat number 221B quickly disappearing from view until it was only a pinprick in the distance.

"So we rushed all the patients out of the room just as the room exploded," Sarah was saying, shifting herself closer to the elegantly set table.

John watched Sarah's face as she spoke, examining the way the soft candlelight flickered over her features, defining her straight nose and deepening the color of her eyes to a midnight blue.

"The doctor who'd set the bomb in the first place turned out to be a schizophreniac impersonating a doctor," she continued with a small laugh. "Needless to say, he was carted off to a mental institute first thing, but the whole hospital still thrummed with the aftershocks of the bombing for months afterward."

John smiled at Sarah as she finished her story. She was smart and witty and beautiful, just as he'd thought. Plus, her eyes twinkled when she laughed, just like Sherlock's-

_No, there will be none of that_, he told himself firmly. _If you compare her to Sherlock, how are you ever going to be able to move on?_

"Reminds me of the time I was almost bombed by a madman," John countered, willing away his thoughts. Sarah leaned forward, interested. "There was this man called Moriarty, see, and-"

John's phone suddenly vibrated in his coat pocket, making him jump. He pulled it out and the caller ID alerted him that it was 'The Brilliant Sherlock Holmes', as Sherlock had titled himself in John's contacts list, was calling him.

"Excuse me for a moment," he told Sarah with a smile, bringing the phone up to his ear. "Hello?" he said into the receiver.

"John, come home right now. I need you." Sherlock's voice sounded desperate, a quality which it had never taken on before. John decided he liked it, at least when it was directed towards him. He liked being needed.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?"

"'What's wrong'? It's _all_ wrong, John! _I _was wrong!" Sherlock sounded frantic now, and the sound of shuffling could be heard in the background, as though Sherlock was hurriedly pacing back and forth, the way he did when he was agitated about something or trying to figure out something complex.

Besides that, Sherlock had just admitted he'd been wrong about something. What it was, John didn't know, but he knew the situation must be dire. He shot to his feet.

"Tell me what it is!" he demanded, but Sherlock had already hung up.

John clicked his phone shut and politely turned his attention to his date. "I'm so sorry, Sarah, but there's been a bit of a situation involving my flatmate and I really must go and take care of it. Perhaps we can continue our date some other time." With an apologetic smile, John turned around and began to quickly walk away.

"John," Sarah called, and John froze. God, here it came. She would complain about his sudden departure, and how if he wanted this to work then he would have to choose between her and Sherlock, and John knew who he would choose-

"There's not going to be a next time, is there?" she asked quietly.

John spun around, confused. "What do you mean?"

Sarah smiled a small smile. "We both know exactly what I mean. I can see what he means to you, and I just can't compare to that. We would never truly be happy with each other because you would always be holding out hope for him, and the moment he showed the slightest bit of interest, you'd run after him like an infatuated puppy."

John was taken aback; how could she possibly have guessed-

"It's not obvious, don't worry. And I understand. I think it's better we leave things the way they are than have them progress any further and then call it off."

John stood for a moment, processing the words, and then slowly walked to Sarah and pulled her into a hug. "Thank you. For understanding." They pulled apart and stared at each other for a moment. "You know, if you weren't a surgeon, you could have a lucrative career as a psychiatrist."

Sarah laughed and stepped back from their embrace. "Go to him," she said, with a genuine smile this time. "Don't let him slip away. He's worth it."

John mirrored her smile. "I know." And he rushed home to his crazy flatmate.

Sherlock was slumped against the wall outside of 221B when John hopped out of the taxi. He rushed over to the detective.

"Sherlock! What are you doing out here? You'll catch a chill!" John chastised, quickly unlocking the flat and practically shoving Sherlock inside. John shed his coat as soon as the door closed behind them and draped it over Sherlock's shivering form. He steered Sherlock toward the living room and sat him down in the chair in front of the fireplace - John's chair.

Sherlock sat motionless, gaze fixed on the ground and body rigid on the seat but for a slight shivering. His skin was paler than ever and his dark, curly hair was sticking up at odd angles. Something about his demeanor told John not to say a word, so he simply pulled up a chair in front of his flatmate and sat down, watching him closely.

Suddenly, Sherlock reached out and grasped John's hand, holding it to his cheek for a moment and letting out a sigh of contentment.

John's heart stopped.

The two sat for a moment in silence as Sherlock caressed John's hand against his smooth cheek and John's heart slowly restarted. All too soon, Sherlock's eyes, which had fluttered closed when he'd touched John's hand to his face, jerked open and he dropped John's hand.

"How was your date?" Sherlock asked, jerking his head up to look at John.

"All right," John replied in a dazed voice, his hand tingling from the lingering feel of Sherlock's touch. "Sarah was very kind and charming. And smart."

"As smart as me?" Sherlock whispered.

John started. "Of course not," he replied. "You know for a fact that there is no one as smart as you. You've been reminding me of that every day since the day I met you!"

A silence, then- "So I suppose you'll be seeing Sarah again, then?" This was directed to some point over John's shoulder.

"Actually, no," John replied quietly. Sherlock blinked at him, his gaze finally returning to John's face. "It's, uh, not going to work out."

"Oh." And then, "I'm sorry."No '_I told you so_'? No derision?

John laughed. "I'm not."

Another silence stretched between them, Sherlock staring at the ground while John stared at Sherlock.

"On the phone," John said, "you sounded pretty... frantic."

"Yes, I was thinking about a few things and they... made me a bit anxious, so I called you out of reflex."

"What things?" John pressed.

"Just... things that you wouldn't understand."

"Let me be the judge of that," John said firmly. He leaned closer to Sherlock and carefully put his hands over the detective's. Sherlock's hand was ice-cold. "You know I'm here for you, Sherlock. You can tell me anything."

Sherlock shook his head fervently, staring at their clasped hands, and John noticed that the color had finally returned to his face - more color than usual, in fact. "I don't know how," Sherlock said quietly. And then louder- "I don't know how!" John wasn't sure whether that last had been directed to him or Sherlock himself.

Something was seriously wrong with Sherlock, this much John knew. First the panicked phone call, and then the insecurity about his own brilliance, and now this. Perhaps all of his mistreating of his body had finally caught up to him and he'd contracted some sort of personality disorder - some sort of anti-Sherlock disease.

But if that was the case, then perhaps Sherlock had to do things that he wouldn't normally do. In a test of smarts, Sherlock could easily beat anyone, but when it came to expressing his feelings, Sherlock was lost. He was good with his words, but not... with his actions.

"Don't speak, then," John whispered, tightening his grip on Sherlock's hands. "Just show me what it is and I'll help you. We can communicate through our actions. You don't have to say a word."

Sherlock seemed to be contemplating this, brows furrowed into an expression of deep thought. His mouth moved slightly, forming the slightest semblance of words and sounds that only he could hear. Then he stopped. His face smoothed out and his lips ceased their movements. His hands, lying on the table beneath John's, slipped out of John's grip and slowly began to trail up John's arms. John shivered and allowed his eyes to flutter closed as Sherlock's cold fingertips glided along his skin, leaving goosebumps and delicious tingles in their wake. John dearly wanted to take advantage of the intimate moment and allow his own fingertips to explore the expanse of Sherlock's flawless, pale skin, but he knew better than to do so; this was Sherlock's moment, his time to wordlessly explain his worries and pains, and John had to be understanding and supportive. There was no room for his own selfish desires.

So John stayed still, allowing Sherlock the freedom to express what he needed to. The detective's trailing fingers had reached John's upper arms now and were slowly kneading their way to his shoulders. John clamped his lips together to stop himself from letting out a sound that would both put him in a very awkward spot and ruin the moment. What was Sherlock trying to tell John with this? Was he... horny? Well, that was a thought John hadn't contemplated.

Or perhaps... Oh God, perhaps Sherlock had found out about John's little crush and felt guilty at... at having somehow led him on. Perhaps he was trying to fulfill John's wish to make it up to him.

Except...

Except that didn't sound like Sherlock at all. Sherlock would never indulge John that way; he would ask a million ceaseless questions about it until John was red as a tomato from the embarrassment, and then he would let John know that he was sorry but a relationship between them would never work out.

Then again, wasn't doing un-Sherlock-like things the whole point of this exercise? And indulging John's fantasies, no questions asked, was exactly what the anti-Sherlock would do. So that meant...

No. This had to stop.

"Sherlock," John whispered. Then he inwardly chastised himself because the name had come out as more of a needy moan than a warning. "Sherlock," he said again, louder and more commanding. He forced his eyes open-

And found himself looking directly into the familiar blue-green orbs of Sherlock's eyes. Except he'd never seen them so close up before; now they seemed to be a different color entirely, something like a deep, smoldering golden brown framed by thick lashes of the same color. Their faces were so close that John went cross-eyed trying to run his gaze down Sherlock's nose to his delightfully pink, parted lips. His chest swelled in anticipation; oh God, he was going to kiss Sherlock Holmes...

And he couldn't do it.

He couldn't do it knowing that it didn't mean anything to Sherlock, that it was only a way of absolving his guilt. It couldn't possibly be anything else. John pulled back sharply, extracting his arms from Sherlock's touch and rising from his chair in his haste.

Sherlock looked up at John, a lost, dejected expression crossing his face for a moment, as if he were a child who'd just lost his favorite toy.

"God, I'm sorry Sherlock," John said sincerely. "I never meant for any of this to happen. I don't-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted, sounding more like his old self than ever, confident and detached. His eyes had shuttered back to their closed-off, unreadable state. "It's all right. It is I who should apologize to you, John. What I did was out of line. I just thought that perhaps you-" He stopped and seemed to shake himself from the inside. "No, never mind. I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me." He stood then, and with a nod and a terse "Good night, John," he began to walk away, turning his back on an unresolved situation and a speechless John. Again.

No. _Not_ again.

"Wait, Sherlock," John said in a surprisingly strong voice. The demand echoed around the silent room and stopped Sherlock in his tracks. The detective stood for a few seconds in place and then turned to face John. His eyes were cold and hard, and John only just restrained himself from flinching back from them.

"I need to explain myself," John persisted. "I can't let you walk away without clearing up the situation, because otherwise we'll just be tiptoeing on eggshells around each other come tomorrow, and we can try to ignore that this ever happened, but we both know it did. And I don't think either of us will be able to look at the other again without remembering and... wondering.

"I don't know when it happened, or why, or how, but it did. I started getting these... feelings for you that I shouldn't have been getting, and I knew it was wrong - I _still_ know that - but they just wouldn't bloody go away!"

Sherlock stepped closer. "John-" he started.

"No," John asserted. "Let me finish." John took a deep breath and found the strength to continue. This opportunity wouldn't come again, after all, and once he'd started confessing, he found he couldn't stop. "I started watching you differently, watching the way your lips moved while you talked instead of listening to the words you said; watching the way you moved, so fluid and graceful, like a cat." John laughed, slightly deliriously.

Another deep breath. "Anyway, I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, and you obviously already know this, but I... really like you-" John paused, contemplating it. Then, tentatively, he continued: "No, I... I _love_ you, Sherlock. And this is not the way I pictured declaring my love to you, but there it is."

"John-"

"I'm almost finished, I promise," John interrupted. "I'm not going to act on my feelings, so you don't have to worry about that, and I don't want you to feel guilty by thinking you led me on or anything. It's not your fault - none of it is; you can't help being gorgeous and perfect and brilliant and adorable. I-If you want me to move out I will, but... please don't make me Sherlock!" John walked closer to his friend and looked up at him in desperation. "I want to be with you, even if it's just as a friend. Please!" John's heart raced in fear that this would be the last time he would see Sherlock.

"May I speak now, John?" Sherlock asked politely.

John closed his eyes and nodded, preparing himself for the ridicule and disgust.

"You are an idiot, John Watson."

John had been expecting it, but still he shrank in on himself at Sherlock's words. Sherlock's rejection would be harsh no matter how gently the detective tried to let him down; harsh enough to tear John apart from the inside out. But he deserved it, he knew he did, so he opened his eyes and held himself upright, prepared to accept Sherlock's insults like a man.

But Sherlock merely smiled, and it was a genuine smile, one that lit up his entire face and took John's breath away.

And then he laughed, a laugh of happiness and relief and hilarity, the one that John had gotten the pleasure of hearing only once before.

And then he moved closer to John, as close as they'd been before John had pushed him away, nose brushing nose, lips parted. Sherlock's hand cupped John's face, and it was warm this time, as if John's words had extinguished the cold.

Sherlock moved his body even closer until it was flush with John's, and then he tilted his head so his lips brushed John's right ear, and he whispered, "You love me." He sounded almost awed at the prospect, as if he couldn't possibly believe it.

"I-" John began.

And then suddenly, Sherlock's lips were on his.

It was awkward at first, with John too surprised to react, and Sherlock clumsily bumping his nose against John's, and the angle all wrong, but then John regained control and shifted until they lined up _just so_ and-

Sherlock moaned as John's body pressed impossibly closer to his, and John decided that was a sound he liked hearing very, _very _much.

John pulled back, dazed and panting. "Sherlock," he breathed, brushing the back of his hand tentatively over Sherlock's smooth cheek and looking up into his brilliant eyes. The detective leaned into the touch, and then his eyes softened and a strange smile crossed his lips in the way it always did when John had done something particularly embarrassing. John had always thought that look had been a way for Sherlock to restrain himself from laughing at him, but now he knew what it really was: a look of adoration.

"You love me too," John whispered in awe. It wasn't a question.

Instead of a response - and John hadn't been expecting one, either - Sherlock leaned down and captured John's lips with his again. John didn't mind the evasion.

"So what does this make us?" John whispered as they pulled back again, wrapping a hand around Sherlock's long, smooth neck. He buried his other hand in Sherlock's mass of curly hair, the way he'd wanted to since the moment he'd first met the detective. He was surprised at how soft it was, like ebony strands of silk wrapped around his fingers.

"Are we lovers?" John prompted when Sherlock didn't respond. His hand combed through the detective's curls as he spoke, and he decided that he could get used to the feel of Sherlock's hair beneath his palms. "Boyfriends? Partners?"

Sherlock scowled and drew back a bit. "Do we have to be anything? Can't we just be John and Sherlock like always, except a little bit more?"

"So... friends with benefits, then?" John teased.

Sherlock huffed. "Honestly, John, you can call it what you'd like as long as I get to snog you." And he pulled John back in for another deep, slow kiss.

"God, your taste is addictive," John breathed in between kisses.

"Mmm," Sherlock murmured in agreement, his mouth a little bit occupied.

John drew away and grinned wickedly, trailing his mouth lower down Sherlock's jaw, painting the detective's skin with his lips on his way to Sherlock's long, milky white neck. His tongue flicked out just slightly and traced his path down the detective's neck. Sherlock's skin was even softer than John had expected, and it tasted delightfully musky with a tinge of something enticingly sweet.

John glanced up to find Sherlock's eyes closed and his mouth open in a silent gasp of pleasure.

"Well," whispered John with a sly smile. "Now I know what to do next time you're bored." And his lips brushed over a spot on the base of Sherlock's neck that made the detective let out a startled moan of ecstasy.

"What if I said I was bored now?" Sherlock questioned hoarsely, hands cupping John's face to brush their lips together.

"Then let's cure that," John whispered. And he did.


End file.
